Salt
by lithle
Summary: Three months after the events of Like Oxygen, Duo shows up on Wufei's doorstep. As familiar, dangerous patterns assert themselves, Wufei's left wondering if there is, or could be, anything between them beyond self-destructive desire. 2x5
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Welcome to _Salt_ , the sequel to _Like Oxygen_. This takes place about two to three months later. (Three months after the final chapter, more like two since the actual events resolved.) Also, it has an outline. And a goal. So, hey, maybe it'll go somewhere.

 _Like Oxygen_ Summary for New Readers: Duo, who's avoiding memories of the war, is recruited by Wufei for a mission. The mission goes fine. But being around an old war comrade is a lot like being in the war, and even as the two are drawn to each other, Duo's self-destructive tendencies threaten to overwhelm him. (Also, Wufei isn't doing so hot, either.) After sleeping together, the two go their separate ways, with Wufei resolving to stay away from Duo.

Pairings: 2x5, 1xR

Warnings: Post-war trauma. Suicidal ideations. Deeply broken people making deeply bad decisions. Depression. So, yeah. It's a lithle fic.

* * *

I believed in something once. In justice, if not in peace. In strength, as the antidote to weakness, as if the one could cure the other. Me, the scholar, and still such a fool. Make something strong, unbending, and you're inviting it to snap. All it takes is the right impact, at the right spot.

Strength is an illusion. And justice is just a pretty word for revenge.

It's unwise, to build yourself on simple ideals. On youthful rage and hopelessness. Eventually, there's nothing left to feed that fire. The veil drops. And you're left with, what?

The Preventers, I suppose.

It's something to do, at least. It's reading the lyrics of a song you once loved, or the abridgement of a classic. The shape of the thing, without the truth of it. Enough to keep limping forward, because what else is there to do?

I was alive once. An idiot, yes. But alive.

And then, so briefly it feels like a sick hallucination, alive again. Alive with Duo's mouth bruising mine. Alive, as he shattered a little more with every breath, the war always there in his eyes.

One mission, and it almost killed the both of us, for all the actual threat was so easily dealt with. It turns out, a bullet can kill a memory, or the theft of a memory. An imposter, with a too familiar face. Simple.

There are other ways to deal with memories, more personal, that also involve bullets. I think of that more, these days.

Two months. Two months since I returned Duo to Howard and his merry band of scavengers. I assume that he's still there. That he's remembering to breathe. I would have heard, wouldn't I, otherwise?

And would word get back to him, if I stopped? Best if it doesn't. I've unsettled him enough. Wanting to see him is like wanting to pull a trigger, and I don't even know which of us the metaphorical gun is pointing toward.

Work. Train. Sleep. Work. Train. Sleep. Mission. Sleep. Work. Train. Sleep.

It should be enough. It is, of course, enough. What else could there be?

Work. Train.

A package, on my doorstep. Brown paper, about a quarter meter on each side. No postage. There's protocol for such things. A bomb disposal squad to call.

'NOT A BOMB' is written, in a heavy, permanent marker scrawl, on each face of the box. How reassuring. I take the box inside with me. I know Duo's handwriting. And if I'm not the explosives expert he is, I can certainly handle myself.

The package sits, unopened, as I eat, study, meditate, prepare for sleep. Sleep. Work. Train.

"Chang?" Heero and I often spar, but the question comes as he finishes murdering a punching bag. They'll need to order a new one. Again.

I finish my current set before giving the training dummy a rest. "Mm?"

Of all of us, I had thought it was Heero who'd be ruined by the peace. Weapon that he is. Was. But he's given himself to a new mission, pursing it with the same single-minded ferocity as he does everything. Two missions, maybe. Peace. Relena. Or maybe they're the same thing, in his mind.

"You usually leave before now," he says.

"Am I disturbing you?"

He seems to consider it. "No."

He doesn't say anything further, so I ignore him, continuing with my own routine. Or not. My routine would have me halfway home. My training, then.

I can feel him watching me as I stretch in the same way I feel any weapon aimed my way. During the war, it would have infuriated me to be so openly observed. Now, it's more of an irritating itch. I reach for it, testing to see if it will kindle. The hint of heat turns to ash under the weight of my awareness.

"Yuy?" I say, getting to my feet. "Is there something you want?"

"You seem uninjured," he replies.

"Thank you for noticing," I reply, dryly. "Anything else?"

He shakes his head but keeps watching me. I watch back, reading the barest hint of confusion in his expression. Generally, that has one source.

"What did Relena say this time?" I ask.

He doesn't deflect. "That she was concerned. That you were quiet lately."

"We can't all be-" the usual comparison dies on my lips. Profane, to use his name like that. "Nice."

"I think she's used to that," Heero says, as amused as he gets outside of a Gundam. Almost smiling.

"Good," I say. I turn my attention back to the training room, considering the punching bag he mutilated. But, no. The sun's set. There's a pattern to keep. Break that, and what's left?

I don't think about the box. I've spent the entire day, not thinking about the box, in much the way one avoids thinking about pink elephants.

"I'm going to head out," I say. More than I'd usually bother with, but he's still watching.

"You're ok?" he asks. And it's so very forced, so very much her words in his voice, that I find myself smirking. That woman, it's not just the world she's bending to her will. Maybe Duo's right. Maybe she gets him to cuddle.

 _Heero fucks like an angry instruction manual_. Another of Duo's little observations. Not, by my memory, incorrect. But we were all so damn young then. What did any of us know about it?

And what does it say about us, that at 20, the war feels like a childhood, and so very far away?

"Operating within acceptable parameters," I reply, because one of us might as well sound like Heero.

That seems to satisfy him. He doesn't even bother to nod, just turns back to the equipment.

* * *

The box is still there when I return to the apartment, sitting just inside the door. I can't imagine what it means.

It's not like we write. Or otherwise communicate, for that matter. No one talks to Duo. He made it clear, long before I hunted him down for the mission, that he wanted things that way.

Duo, who never stopped talking, walked away from the Preventers and all but disappeared. And now he's sending presents. Or explosives.

 _NOT A BOMB_ proclaims Duo's blocky handwriting. And I believe it. Because it's Duo. Duo who doesn't lie. A stupid rule to live by. Honesty will get you killed, with or without help.

I sit down crosslegged, and take out my knife, slicing first the superfluous twine, then the tape beneath. Nothing explodes. Or oozes. There is a smell, but more like rain than gunpowder.

The box is flimsy cardboard. Not something that could have survived a space shipment. That doesn't have to mean anything. He could have ordered the shipment from an earth-based company without ever setting foot on the ground.

And his handwriting? There are explanations. I can think of a dozen that don't require him to leave space. The simplest explanation seems somehow the least possible. Duo did not drop a package off on my doorstep and wander away.

 _Blue-violet eyes staring out at the earth with loathing admiration. His breath catching, then stopping._ I reach for a safer memory. _My name snarled like a curse. His teeth on my-_

Dammit.

Of all the ghosts to suddenly acquire. The war ended like an exorcism. Old ghosts and new, laid to rest. And maybe that would have been a relief, if I hadn't come to define myself by my hauntings.

And who will I be, defined by this one?

Inside the box, I find a wilted houseplant and a book.

 _Duo standing in the doorway, taking in the empty apartment with a single, too knowing glance. The way he looked at me then, like he was seeing me for the first time. Duo stretched out on the floor, feline grace creating the illusion of relaxation. "Buy a plant or something."_

I should throw the thing out. It's already half dead, and it's not like I'm going to be around to take care of it. As I lift it from the box, it sheds most its leaves. I put it in the window, all the same. Pour a cup of water into its pot. It looks no better for the attention.

The book is the Xunzi, a familiar text from my scholar days. I flip through it briefly, seeking, and failing to find, the sort of clarity that once came so easily from such texts. "If you do not know a man, look to his friends."

And, lacking those, do you look to his ghosts?

I check, twice, but there's nothing else in the box. No note of explanation. Just a dead plant and an old book, dog-eared and marked up by previous readers. The living are better at hauntings than the dead. For one, the dead so rarely send gifts.

I water the plant again. How often is one even supposed to do that? The plant, in response, drops one of its few remaining leaves.

Eventually, the sun rises.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Well, that escalated quickly.

Warnings: Sex (nothing graphic), bad language, worse decisions.

* * *

Sometimes, instinct is more than work, train, sleep. Sometimes instinct is drawing a gun and aiming it at a target before you even see them.

The safety's off, and my finger's on the trigger before I recognize Duo in the pre-dawn shadows. That strange mix of languid confidence and painful tension, the suggestion of an easy smile, even in the dark.

He's got a travel carrier and four takeout coffees; when I lower my gun, he holds them out to me.

"How do you like your coffee?" he asks.

I flick the safety back on and slip my gun back into the holster. My pulse is racing, and I tell myself it's adrenaline, not the familiar, careful rhythm of his breathing. It's been a week now, since the box, the plant, the book. Long enough to convince myself of how little it meant. Just some whim. Nothing important.

He shouldn't be here. I've seen what Earth does to him. What I do to him.

"I drink tea," I say.

"That's not your line." He grabs a coffee from the tray, and holds it out, watching me until I finally reach for it. "You're supposed to say, 'I like my coffee like I like my men. Totally fucked up.'"

His fingers brush mine as I take the cup, and I feel his gaze rake over me, slow and predatory, as he holds on a second longer than necessary.

And it feels like resurrection, the way he looks at me. Like taking a first breath, after drowning. If he's been haunting me, why is it that I feel like the ghost? Like I haven't been alive since the last time he touched me?

I step back. Remind myself of the cost. The sick joy in his voice as he hissed, 'I missed this' while he kissed me. Not me. War. An excuse to kill and die.

"You left the plant," I say, taking refuge in the banal.

"Yeah." He glances toward my window, where the now leafless brown stick still sits. "Great job on that, by the way. Never liked green."

I take a swallow of the burnt, bitter coffee, hoping the taste will jolt me awake. But I'm already more awake then I've been in months.

"What'd you do with the book," he asks. "Burn it?"

"I don't burn books," I say, and some of memory of myself takes offense at the very idea. As if you can burn cities and leave the books intact. "Why the Xunzi?"

Why any book? Why is he here?

I know why he's here. His gaze never leaves me. His breathing is quick and sharp.

"It's in Chinese," he replies, setting the tray on the ground without taking a coffee for himself. "And the shopkeeper said it was smart."

If you don't know a man, look to his friends.

Look at what he does to his friends? The fire in Duo's eyes is as much self-immolation as it is desire. He was fine, until I sought him out, I try to remind myself.

And remember instead, his hand on my chest, his breath matching mine. How it felt, to be that desperately observed.

He's watching me with just as much attention, now.

"Duo," I say. "What are you doing here?"

And why do I need him to say it?

He licks his lips. Shrugs. "Thought I'd hang around for awhile."

There's still a debt between us. I dragged him out of hiding. Asked for his help. It wouldn't be honorable, to turn him away.

(It would be honorable to hit him on the head and drag him back off this fucking planet, leave him floating somewhere in space, away from me, from the preventers, from this world and its want and its poisonous beauty.)

"Come inside," I say.

"Thanks."

I know it's a mistake before the door even closes. Before Duo takes off his shoes and wanders over to my desk, where the Xunzi still lays open, margins cluttered with my added notes. His demon is oxygen, but I'm the one who feels breathless.

It's not that I thought I was over this. But I thought I'd figured out what to do about it. That when I left him back with Howard it wouldn't matter anymore, what I might have wanted. What I might have felt, in the dizzy intoxication of his violent, self-destructive desire.

And now he's here, and I feel as good as I have in months. Awake. And all I want is to see how far I can take it. I already know how much better it can be.

His eyes meet mine, and I swallow at the open hunger there. This is the part where I leave. De-escalate.

"Do you-" I start to say, but he steps toward me, too close, and I can hear the rough hitch in his breath. All I want is to taste him.

"Can I stay?" He leans in, hair brushing my cheek as he whispers in my ear. "I make a very entertaining house guest."

"So does a live grenade." If I touch him, will there be anything left but shrapnel?

"Happy to find you one later." He moves closer, the space between us narrow as a blade. His breath is warm against my neck. "We gonna do this?"

Strength is just another flavor of weakness. And what does that make honor, except a new style of shame? And I want him because I want him, because he's been burnt into my mind since the last time, because he isn't work train sleep and he never will be.

Because nothing's ever felt real, like he does when I pull him against me, when I press my teeth to his skin.

The way he exhales, it's pure release. Like I've already given him what he came for. And that's fine. But now it's my turn.

He tears off my jacket as I press him against the wall, my hands under his shirt, fingers seeking his scars as he grinds his hips against mine, and oh fuck, I just want to hear him moan like that again.

His ragged nails dig into my skin as he fumbles at my belt, already rushing things. Last time, he took the lead, made it fast and brutal and desperate. I slam him back against the wall, capturing his wrists and dragging them above his head, pinning him with one hand as I lean forward, my full weight against him.

"Stay." The command comes harsh and needing. I want my name on his lips. I want to look into his eyes and see nothing but myself.

And I should stop. Have to stop. Now, while he's still in one piece.

He grins at me, wicked. His eyes are a slim ring of blue around a pool of black."You've got an interesting idea of hospitality, Chang."

"My house." I kiss him, hard, until he arches up against me, mouth open like an offering that I'm happy to take. "My rules. Work for you?"

He shudders, breath coming in a pant, and I almost back off, until I realize, he's only mirroring me again. My own rough, urgent breathing.

"Fei, you kinky bastard," he says, attempting token resistance against my grip.

Not until him. I pull back, just a little, still holding him in place. Wait for an answer. And I know what I am to him. I know he's only kissing me for the taste of spilled blood on my skin. He wants me like poison, and I want him like light.

"I could stop," I say. I could, still, stop. If he just asked me too, I could stop.

He tries to reach toward me, every lean, dangerous muscle of him twisting in the effort. "Keep going."

I squeeze his wrists, pulling them up a little higher _._

"Like this?"

"Yes," he says it like a prayer. " _Please_."

It's all I need to hear.

* * *

It's possible, with enough time, pent-up desire, and bloody-minded stubbornness, to wear even Duo out.

"Right," he says muzzily, as I come back in from the bathroom. "Just gonna- yeah."

"Go to sleep, Duo."

"Fuck you, Chang. You-" He manages a laugh. His eyes are already mostly closed. "But later."

I wait. He mumbles, incoherent, then even that stops. His breathing falls out of sync with mine, and it's not an improvement. Duo breathes like a rabbit, sharp little gulps of air. Asleep, he abandons the blissed-out sprawl of seconds before, turning on his side and curling in on himself, until he's a tight ball at the edge of my mattress.

The lingering traces of euphoria leave me in an ice-water rush, as I watch him effortlessly fall back into pain. Forget everything that came before. This is what happens to him, when he's near me. If I had half the honor I used to pretend to-

But what would that version of me, scholar and heir, know about any of this? He'd quote me lines about the tyranny of passion, tell me that true strength meant rising above baser instincts. And then he'd see what happened when his colony burned, and he'd learn what it meant to give into desire.

Revenge is only a different sort of wanting. The soldier didn't understand that either.

And me? The ghost? Whatever's left when the ideals are stripped away? What do I know of anything?

I know Duo shouldn't be here. He's lost weight, since I last saw him, and he's let his hair grow shaggy and unkempt. He looks gaunt and haunted as he sleeps, a scarred, discarded husk from the war.

I know I want him here. That if I just allowed myself to lie down next to him, I, at least, would find a little peace. Something like peace, anyway.

But I stay standing.

Eventually, my phone buzzes, and I excavate it from the pile of our clothes. There are 7 texts from Heero, all variations of 'Report in.' The most recent simply says, 'There in five.'

The apartment smells of sex and sweat, my skin is red with the tracks of Duo's nails, and oh yes, he's passed out naked on my bed. Which is, essentially, in the living room.

Dammit.

'I'm fine.' I text back. 'No need to come. Will report in shortly.'

He doesn't respond.

Three minutes later, Heero pounds on the door, the sound saying he'll be breaking it down shortly. Duo jolts awake and reaches for his gun. At my gesture, he falls silent and still.

"Heero," I call through the door. "I told you I was fine."

"Open the door," Heero replies, voice utterly flat.

I could tell him that he can't just go around breaking into people's houses, but of course he can. And, in his place, I'd probably do the same. He doesn't know what he can't see. And it's not like a dangerous terrorist with a gun isn't hiding in here.

Behind me, Duo muffles a laugh. He hasn't even reached for a sheet.

At least _I'm_ dressed.

"Now, Chang," Heero says, trying the handle.

"Fine," I snap. I open the door a crack. Thankfully, the room is arranged so that he can see my desk, not my bed. "What do you need, Yuy?"

"You're late," he says.

I glance at my watch. "I am 15 minutes late. I told you I was on my way."

"You're never less than an hour early," he states. He's trying to look behind me, and I brace my foot against the door to keep him from pushing it further open. Not that I'd win that fight, if he really tried.

"Thank you for the wakeup call," I snarl. "Now, you can leave. I'll be in shortly."

"Let me in."

"No."

"Why?"

I hear Duo shift behind me and tense. If I don't get rid of Heero, he'll only be too happy to assist.

"Yuy, why the hell do you think?" I ask, not blushing, because I am not a child and I can screw who I please, when I please.

He finally looks at me. Not 'assesses the situation for further threats' but looks at me. My hair is down, I haven't showered, and the t-shirt I threw on isn't enough to hide all the marks of Duo's attentions. Give the man credit though, he doesn't even crack a smile.

"Call in, next time," he says at last. "Thought you were compromised."

"Sorry," I say. And mean it. "Things came up, umm, rather suddenly."

Duo's snicker in the background isn't what I'd call quiet. Heero frowns, brow furrowing. Trying to place the voice?

But all he says is, "I'll see you at work."

At which point, he retreats enough for me to slam the door in his face.

"Ashamed of me?" Duo asks, with a grin. He's propped up on his elbows, right hand still resting on his gun. Awake, he maintains the illusion better. I can almost believe he's, if not ok, then no worse off than he's ever been.

But I'm not as blind as I'd like to be. I can see the near explosive tension beneath the languid calm. And yes, I am ashamed.

"Will you be here when I get back tonight?" I ask.

"Don't know," he says. "Don't like to plan that far ahead."

I can imagine coming back to an empty apartment, to shadow and silence, to work train sleep. No more than what I deserve. I can also imagine coming back to Duo's corpse. So much less than what he deserves.

I could teach him the trick of surviving this peace. Shut down. Let go of everything you believed, and let the current of duty carry you. Easy for me. But Duo? Duo has always been so aggressively alive.

"I can take you to the shuttleport," I say. "Get you back to space."

"One fuck and you're done with me? Brutal, Chang." He sounds amused. But that could mean anything. Duo may not _tell_ lies. But he is a lie, all the same.

So, I try the truth. "Earth isn't good for you. You said as much, last time you were here."

"I'm done with good for me," he replies. "Time to celebrate some bad habits."

"Duo," I say, and even to me it sounds wrong. Too concerned. "You should go back."

"Wufei," Duo mocks, turning my name into a whine. He's on his feet in one smooth, violent motion, gun never leaving his hand. So utterly dangerous, broken, real. The only thing in color in my stark white room. And now he's angry, in my face, and still holding a gun. A smarter man might be concerned. I want to fuck him again.

"Let's get this straight now," he snaps. "I'm not your boyfriend. I don't need your help. I came here for a good fuck, and you are a _very_ good fuck. But that's it. Don't get attached."

I grab his right wrist with care, a parody of earlier, and pin it to his side, flicking his gun's safety on while I do it. It shouldn't be as easy as it is. Wouldn't be, if he was, say, eating regularly. Sleeping on occasion.

"I thought you didn't lie," I say. "You think I don't know why you're here?"

He doesn't answer, just glares at me.

"We all want to die." The words come soft, and I don't think I meant to say them. "I can't fight you on that. But I'm not going to help."

This is, in fact, news to me. Turns out, maybe I do still believe in honor. Which makes me a fool, as well as a bastard.

He wrenches his wrist out of my grasp. "Then what good are you?"

"I ask myself that all the time."

The muscles in his face turn his lips upward. It's not a smile. We have nothing to say to each other, and we've worn out our other means of communication.

Duo turns away. I grab the rest of my clothes, and head for the shower.

When I get out, Duo's gone.


	3. Interlude 1

Author's Note: A brief interlude from Duo's POV. As mentioned, my writing style has shifted a bit since 2013, so those of you familiar with "Like Oxygen" may find the POV a bit less familiar than you'd expect.

Warnings: Explicit language (even more than usual), suicidal impulses.

* * *

You want my advice? A little bit of wisdom I've picked up in the last few months of my miserable life? Well then. Don't fuck fucking Chang Wufei.

Man flips between hot and cold so fast, it gives me whiplash. Last time-and yeah, that shows how bright I am- last time, I thought it was a fluke.

Like, maybe he got focused on the mission, and fine, that's fair. He's got a thing about Treize. I get that. All goddamn humanity should have a thing about Treize. Specifically, a thing where we, say, line up and spit on his picture every Sunday. That'd be a start. But Wufei's thing is a _Thing_. So, he goes from 'violent spontaneous sex' to 'fucking priest' like he's got a switch in there somewhere, and I figure, sure. Why not. Give him his space.

Except now he's done it again. One minute, he's pinning you to a wall, making you beg for it. The next, he's all but looking up shuttle schedules, he's in such a hurry to ship you off planet.

It's enough to give a guy a complex. Not me, obviously. But the point stands.

Asshole.

Pretending like he cares. As if he knows anything about me, or what I need, or what I fucking well deserve. What any of us deserve. Amnesty, they call it. As if all it takes to wash away blood is a prettily worded proclamation and Relena in a white dress.

Look, I don't blame the others. He who is without sin and all that. But I know what I am. And I don't need anyone, certainly not Wufei, trying to save me.

So I slam out of there the second the shower turns on. Nothing wrong with run and hide.

Course, it gets a bit harder when Heero's parked out front, perched on his bike and watching Wufei's door. Guess Wufei didn't handle that hilarious little conversation quite as well as he thought.

I let my posture relax, go languid. And hey, it's not hard. Because give the bastard credit, he knows how to relax a guy. Eventually.

"Morning, Heero." And I smile at him with as much smug satisfaction as I can muster. A lot. For the record.

On a scale from zero to 'I just discovered that Wufei spent the morning fucking Duo Maxwell,' Heero's expression puts him at about a six. I was hoping for better, but what can you do?

"Duo," he says. And then he just stares at me, all perfect soldier solemn. Guess some things never change.

"Yeah?"

"What were you-" He cuts himself off. Answers his own question, I assume. "Why are you here?"

"You want a demonstration? Be just like old times."

There's actually the flicker of a smile on his lips. Guess it's good to be someone's happy memory.

"Where are you going?" he asks. Which, for the record, isn't a no. Not that I'd lay a finger on him without Relena's permission. Woman's been through enough.

I consider the question. My plans, since reaching Earth, have been admittedly sketchy. "Dunno. Probably go start a fight, somewhere."

"Does Wufei know?"

"He's not my parole officer." And neither, for that matter, is Heero.

He glances toward the closed apartment door, then back at me. "You could come to headquarters. Wouldn't be an issue."

Sad thing is, the man thinks he's being nice.

"I'll, uhh, keep that in mind." Now it's my turn to glance at the door. Somehow, I doubt that Wufei's the type to take long showers. "Look, I gotta run."

"Where?"

Off a cliff, it gets me out of this conversation. Though fuck falling as a way to die. What kind of blaze of glory is that?

"Dunno," I say. "You want me to check in when I get there?

Second piece of advice. Don't make sarcastic offers to Heero.

"Yes," he says, without a moment's hesitation.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say. "Later."

And then I start walking, resolutely not looking over my shoulder to see if Heero's following me. Because if he decides I don't get to leave, well, I'm not leaving. But when I hear his bike start up, it's headed away from me.

My motel's pretty close to Wufei's place, just far enough to get away from shiny and clean and lawns and flowers. Funny how quick the transition can be. Twenty minutes walking and its car lots and strip clubs, boarded up store fronts and empty lots. Teens shove each other on the street corner, laughing, easy, and all of them are armed.

Closest you can get to home without a shuttle to L2. Not that I go back there, much. Why pick at old scars when you've got fresh ones?

The kids tense up when I get too close, and who knows if they see a cop or a mark or if there's even a difference. The oldest has a few years on me, burn scars saying she fought in the war; the youngest is maybe fifteen. He shifts, nervous, when he feels me looking at him. Steps back.

Not the sort of kid you'd put in a Gundam, but hell, what type of freak gives a kid a Gundam?

Freaks. Plural. I hope they all burn for it. What was I saying about not judging?

Starting a fight would be easy as stepping just a little too close, smiling just a little too widely. Complimenting the girl on her wolf's head tattoo. Wonder if she regrets it now?

I lower my head and walk past.

No honor in it, Wufei would say. Except he wouldn't, and who the fuck cares what he thinks anyway? Shoulda punched him while I had the chance. Or taken a swing at Heero. Fights worth having.

Lie?

Something like one, anyway. Making it sound like I'm looking for a fair fight. At my best, Wufei could take me, nine fights out of ten. And I'm not exactly in top form. Heero? Well, that's just suicide.

Which, well, yeah. You get the point.

I don't want to beat the shit of some kids. I just want to get in a few good punches and then-

Yeah.

Fuck. Never said Wufei was wrong, did I? Doesn't make him any less of a bastard.

Worst thing the Father ever did was taught me to be honest. Didn't stick around to see the mess he made, though, did he?

Sorry. That one wasn't fair.

Back at the motel, I pay for another night, because I'm going to need somewhere to crash until whatever. Like I told Heero, I didn't exactly map out my favorite tourist destinations before landing, and hell if I know how long I'll be staying.

I told Howard not to expect me back.

I lie on my back for awhile, trying to recapture any of the morning's euphoric exhaustion. I don't sleep much, anymore. Funny, because that one's Wufei's fault, too. Used to sleep just fine, before he sought me out. Used to dream of war more than I dreamed of dying.

Now I stare at the water stained ceiling, and pretend I'm dreaming.

* * *

It turns out, the bar a few blocks down has pool tables and a lax attitude about people loitering for hours in the middle of the afternoon. A crew of regulars shows up around 6:00, mostly quiet, serious drinkers, but a few willing to play a couple rounds. It's not worth hustling, not in this neighborhood, so I play just well enough to keep things interesting, ignoring the bets being placed on or against me.

No one tries to make conversation. That would've bothered me once.

I'm playing against a military type, probably an Oz loyalist, when something about the air sharpens, and I nearly miss. Trowa's walking up to the bar, looking as sore-backed and sorry as the rest of them, and no else gives him so much as a glance.

I call my shot, then deliberately sink the eight ball. Behind me, a few people grumble, but they've won more than they lost.

"I'm out," I say, throwing my opponent a cocky salute. I can tell, just by the way he stands, that people used to call him sir.

I set my cue back on the rack, all unhurried, and step through my crowd of no-longer-admires, taking the stool next to Trowa. The bartender nods and sets a glass in front of me, same weak, piss colored beer I've been mostly not drinking all evening.

"Come here often?" I ask.

Trowa smiles in that way he has, bland and unremarkable. The sort of smile you can read any way you like. He's drinking something generic and dark, and hell, even knowing what I do, I'd swear he'd been coming here all his life.

"Hey Duo," he says.

"Which of them was it?" I try to sound amused and don't quite manage it.

He doesn't answer, just stares at me a little too long, a little too curious, and takes another drink.

"What?"

"You look like shit," he says. Same quiet, neutral delivery.

"Yeah, nice to see you too."

I don't want to deal with this. Deal with him. I shift, just to feel the weight of my gun.

The bartender's started watching us, watching me. All day, he's glanced right through me, but not anymore. I dig my fingernails into the bar, feel the fake wood bend under the pressure.

"You want to get out of here?" Trowa asks, with a half glance toward the bartender.

"Why? We got something private to discuss?"

Trowa shrugs, puts some cash on the bar, walks out. I glance toward the back, see the Oz captain setting up for another game. It'd be an easy thing to play him again. Wipe the floor with him, beat the shit out of him, or hell, take him back to my room. He's no bad looking, for an older guy.

He catches me looking, and I see him double-take, posture tensing with the memory of old threats. Grinning, I toss him another quick salute, then follow Trowa out into the dark. The sun's just setting, and I'll never get used to how it does that, the way it colors the sky, the way night starts at a different time, every day. Sometimes, it seems like this planet's just built to fuck with people.

Trowa's already about a hundred meters further on, walking with his hands shoved in pockets, his gaze fixed on the horizon, like maybe something about it bothers him too.

I catch up to him in front of an abandoned lot, all grass and weeds, just things growing for no reason, no plan or purpose.

"You gonna tell me what this is about?" I ask.

"Been a long time," he says.

"I'd have settled for longer." I don't bother pretending this time. We're as good as alone out here in the dark. No one around to care what we do to each other. "Now which of the bastards was it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, that depends. You want me to just shoot them both?"

Trowa exhales, a quiet huff of irritation. "He just wanted to be sure you were all right."

"Then you can tell him I'm fine," I snap. I don't even care which of them it is anymore. Not that I can't guess.

"Are you?" he asks.

He's watching me, all bland incurious patience. Fucking Trowa. The one you could never be sure of, because he could be anyone he wanted to be. At least, if the others turned on you, you knew they meant it.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm doing just peachy."

Fucking Trowa, who looks me over, raises his visible eyebrow, and shakes his head. Fucking Trowa who takes a half-step back, moving with that ridiculous, liquid grace he has, and, without saying anything, punches me in the jaw.

The shock of it's stronger than the pain, and instinct, the sweet familiarity of violence, is stronger than either. We're fighting before I even think to question it, and it's not the cautious, testing rhythms of sparring. This is spilled blood and bruised bone, neither of us holding back.

(Ok, so, he doesn't slit my throat, and I don't shoot him, so maybe we hold back some.)

It doesn't take long for him to get the upper hand, for it to be about me mostly just keeping my feet, and the world is pain and sweat and breathless urgency, and he's smiling, the fucker, when he finally sweeps my legs out from under me, and I fall hard into the dirt.

He reaches for my hand while I'm still gasping, all the air gone from my lungs and I'm not sure at first if it's going to come back. I let him pull me up, the two of us standing centimeters apart, panting, and when my breathing finds a rhythm, it's not mine, and it's not Trowa's, and I try not to think about that too hard.

"Feel better?" he asks, then turns to spit a mouthful of blood into the grass.

And that's the other thing about Trowa. Or maybe it's the trick to doing what he does. He's always been a pro at reading people. Giving them what they need. My ears are still ringing, my jaw aches, and I don't even want to think about the morning. But he's given me something to break against, safely, just for a minute.

And fuck, I don't feel any better.

If this is what I wanted, something to hurt, something _that_ hurt, why don't I feel any better?

"This how you always say hello?" I reply, giving him a cautious, friendly shove. I don't try to smile. It hurts enough just to talk.

He cocks his head to one side, shrugs, and nods back toward the sidewalk. "Where are you staying?"

"This a date? You gonna escort me to my door?" I ask, starting to stumble in the direction of the motel.

"Where, Duo?"

I reach for the address, or some other line, just to needle him. I think of the bare room, the stained ceiling, the long, sleepless night ahead of me. I think of the weight of the gun at my side. How good it feels to hold.

"Wufei," I say. "I'm staying at his place."

Tell me. How do you tell the difference between a lifeline and a noose?


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Hey, look, it's still going. The temptation to call it a wrap halfway through this chapter and run from the difficult emotional stuff was strong. But I am sticking to the outline! (Sort of.)

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and references. Language. Difficult emotional truths.

* * *

Trust Duo, to shatter everything, just with his presence. To bring truth to a place where lies have served so well. To bring resurrection without absolution.

Sleep, work, train. And if I can't fall into that rhythm, if I'm forced to be awake, to be more than the shadow I've allowed myself to become, then who can I be?

Not the scholar or the soldier. Honor, justice? Those ideals, dangerous enough in the hands of a child, have only become more deadly with time. What monster would I be, if I sought justice in this peace?

No. Better to turn the knives inward and in so doing, limit the fallout. Just, even, to do so. Honorable. Dangerous thoughts. I'm too awake now.

I was better off as a ghost.

And there's a metaphor that cuts too close to the truth of the matter. The crux of things, unearthed by Duo's furious, unfettered honesty.

Or, to use his words, a good fuck.

Fuck.

I try to meditate. To read. To do anything but face the silence of my room and the churning maelstrom of my thoughts.

It's past eight, when someone knocks.

I'm on my feet before I can even think, not even reaching for my gun, because I'm sure, helplessly, foolishly sure, it must be Duo.

And what does it say of me, that I'm in such a rush to let him in?

Once could be a mistake. Twice, a fool's optimism. But three times? Eventually, I'll have to admit that I'm trying to hurt him.

And still, I open the door.

It's Trowa, standing on the other side, and before I can decide whether to be relieved or disappointed, I see who's leaning against him. Duo, with a split lip and a black eye, challenge in every line of him.

"You owe me a place to crash," he says. Not flirting now, the words almost cold.

"Get inside." I jerk my head toward the bed, equally detached. "Don't bleed on anything."

Duo shrugs, pushes past me, and I hear him hit the mattress hard.

Trowa's watching us both, but I don't really give a damn what he thinks is going on. It can't possibly be worse than the truth.

"He'll be ok?" he asks. Hilarious question.

"Sure," I say, finally looking at him, noticing that, if not as rough as Duo, he's clearly been in a fight. It's not hard to jump to the right conclusion. No street tough's going to land a blow on either of them.

"What the hell did you do to him?" I ask, the words coming sharp and bright, laced with a temper I thought long since extinguished.

"Just roughed him up a bit," says Duo from behind me. "Don't worry. He'll live."

Trowa keeps his attention locked on me, where it should be. He's a hard man to hit, but I know I could manage. And I find I like the idea of hurting him.

"I thought it might help," Trowa says, tone neither defensive nor placating, just a quiet recitation of fact.

"You don't want me bitten, maybe don't send your dogs after me," Duo adds, sounding more than a little angry himself.

I turn toward him, puzzled. He's shaking out his hands, stretching. Testing for damage.

"What are you talking about?"

Duo looks from me to Trowa and back again, then lets his breath in a laugh. "Sorry. My mistake. Heero then?"

Trowa nods in acknowledgment, as I piece things together. So, Heero had Trowa tailing Duo? That explained why I'd caught Heero staring at me more than once while I was working.

"Bastard," Duo says, without venom, and I don't know which of us he means. I'm not sure he knows. There's a hollowness to his voice, the truth bleeding through the façade. And I still don't know what he's doing here. Or why I let him in. Or why Trowa is still standing in my doorway, watching me.

"Tell Heero I've got it from here," I say, still angry and not trying to hide it.

"You're sure?"

"What will you do if I'm not? Hit him again?"

Duo manages a half-convincing laugh. "Ease up, man. You rather he try your methods?"

It's not the leering insinuation that makes me flinch. What do I care, who Duo fucks? It's the idea that I was trying to help him. Because maybe I was. Or at least, maybe I was pretending to.

And look what a job I did of it.

Trowa still hesitates. He's never been easy to read, but he's always been excellent at reading others. I don't want to know what he sees.

"I've got this," I say, trading anger for something resembling my usual detachment. "Go home."

Again, that look, but he shrugs and turns away.

"Don't worry," Duo calls, before I can close the door. "I won't tell Heero how I beat your ass."

And then it's only the two of us. And silence.

And I don't want to look at him, see him brittle and furious, lying in my bed. Don't want to want him.

I already want him.

"Asshole," say Duo. "Hits like a fucking truck. Got some pills?"

I have what's close to a fully stocked pharmacy. The things we did, they leave more than scars.

"Concussion?" I ask, turning from the door.

"Nah. He's not that good."

I walk past him, to the bathroom. Our eyes don't meet.

And I don't say, what are you doing here. I don't ask him what he wants from me. I just grab a bottle of prescription painkillers and toss them in his direction.

He swallows a few dry and tosses the rest back to me. I turn the bottle over in my hand, attention caught by the warnings on the back. Use as directed. Don't take with alcohol. Don't pilot Gundams after taking. If you, or your houseguest, down the whole bottle, call emergency services. Something like that.

I put them back on the shelf. Pills are so unreliable, and we've all failed at self-destruction. Next time I try, it'll be a sure thing.

I can hear Duo shifting in the other room. I can't hide in the bathroom all night.

"Hey Wufei?" he calls. And there's that hollowness again, except now it sounds more like desperation.

He's resting with his back against the wall, stripped down to his boxers, skin bruised by my teeth and Trowa's fists.

Fuck.

"Yeah?"

"What you said earlier. You weren't wrong. About me, anyway." Duo's voice is flat, but that's a sort of tell, all its own.

I said a lot earlier, but it's easy enough to guess what he means. _We all want to die, Duo_.

"I wasn't wrong about any of us." And nevermind, that the others haven't confided in me, that I don't have Quatre's empathy. I know what I see. Know what I am.

"So, why stick around?"

If I'd known Duo was going to drop seduction and just straight out try and talk me into suicide, I might not have sent Trowa away quite so confidently.

But the way Duo's looking at me, the exhausted, hopeless desperation, well, he's not trying to talk a gun into my hand. He's trying to get me to talk one out of his.

And I don't have an answer for him.

"I think we all have to find our own reasons," I say, playing for time.

His gaze sweeps my stark, unadorned apartment. He tries on a smile, discards it, and gives me that same wanting look.

"Yeah?" he asks, and the cadence is as playful as the words aren't. "I don't see yours."

Of course not. How could he? He tore out the numb, safe center of my world, just by coming too close. And now there's nothing left but him, burning in the dark.

No reason but him.

The thought comes unbidden, refuses to be dismissed. There was a time when I prided myself on my control.

I'd tell him, if I thought it would help. If I knew what it meant.

Instead, I shrug. "I'm maybe not the best role model. Heero does ok."

"Not sure he's gonna share Relena," Duo says. Something in his expression has shifted, but I can't read the change.

"You could always ask," I say, just to see him smile.

He does, lips pulling back in wry amusement. The mask settles back in place, and we're on something like safe ground. The pretense of stability, if not the fact of it.

"Come to bed," he says.

I lick my lips, looking at him. Trying to find anything to say but yes. We can't keep doing this. All I want is to keep doing this. For as long as either of us lasts.

"To sleep," he says. "I'm fuckin' tired, Wufei. I want to sleep."

I'd usually be up for hours, yet. And I'm not accustomed to sharing my bed. But I don't say any of that. Just strip down, too aware of Duo's eyes on me, and hit the lights.

He hugs the outside edge, so I get in behind him, not sure which way to face. There's not enough room for either of us to lay on our backs. I start to turn to the wall, away from him, but Duo grabs my hand, pulls me against him, his back to my chest, my face in his hair.

He's tripwire tense, breathing shallow, gripping my hand like I'm the ledge he's hanging from. He doesn't say anything.

I don't know how to do this. But I hold him anyway.

* * *

I wake at my usual time, before dawn. And maybe I should be disoriented, but I long ago learned to accept waking up in strange new environments. I know immediately where I am, and who's lying next to me.

We must have shifted in the night, because Duo's got me sandwiched between him and the wall, his arm locked around my chest, one of his legs slung over mine, holding me in every way he can.

His breath, warm against my neck, is even for once, a sleeper's steady rhythms. I shift, and he murmurs something in his sleep, nuzzles my shoulder and tightens his grip.

Should I be embarrassed? Appalled? This isn't how we do things. This isn't who we are. (I don't deserve this.)

But I don't move. I stay with him, selfishly content, as the room slowly brightens. Stay until he tenses, then forcibly relaxes. With both of us awake, there's no room left to pretend.

He lets me go, and I stretch, circulation returning to blood starved limbs.

Before I can think of anything to say, his fingers are tracing down my side, over my chest, pushing me back, and I'm staring up at him, sleep-tousled, bruised, and grinning.

"Now this," he says, propped up on one arm, his hand still heavy on my chest, "I could get used to."

 _I don't need you. Don't get attached._ His words. And then he crawls into my bed, clings to me like a life raft. Duo's disorienting at the best of times. But now?

His thumb traces over my collarbone, and the way he sighs, breathless, wanting, burns through me.

What am I supposed to think?

He kisses me, rough, despite the mess Trowa made of him. And I'm not thinking anymore, when he moves to straddle me. I'm just trying to pull him closer. His fingers are tangled in my hair, and I raise my chin, arch my back, and there's that sigh again.

He pulls back.

I open my eyes to find him staring at his hand, as if he doesn't recognize it.

"God," he whispers, on a ragged exhale. He's still breathing.

"Is this your usual prayer routine?" I reply, to break the moment. Things were just getting interesting.

"Sure," he says, more distracted than amused. Did he even hear me?

He leans in again, and when his lips find mine, the kiss is tentative, searching. His fingers card through my hair, thin strands catching on rough callouses, while his other hand lifts from my chest, ghosts over my throat and traces my jawline, a whisper of a caress.

No one's ever touched me like this before. It's dizzying.

I reach for his hips, planning to accelerate things, to turn this into something I can understand. And then I stop, just resting my hands there. I let him kiss me, long and slow, let his fingers dance over my skin. I tell myself he must need this. (I tell myself, I don't need this.)

The distant growl of an engine overhead. A military jet, by the sound of it, probably escorting some diplomat to a meeting with Relena. We both freeze, listening. Judging direction and distance, running through escape plans.

Duo pulls back, yearning toward the sound. At 15, they gave us Gundams and humanity to save or damn. I told myself I stood for justice. And Duo? He told himself he was a god. And then they didn't need us anymore, and we both lost what we thought we stood for.

I don't blame him for his hunger. But I don' know what he expects of me. I'm no Gundam, no war. I can't deify him.

His hand, still in my hair, tightens, relaxes, falls still.

"Fuck." Then he's on his feet, crossing to the other side of the room. There's not far to run, in this place. And nowhere to hide.

What is there to say? I thought I knew what he wanted, until last night. Until this morning.

Pretending to ignore him, I grab my phone, and text Heero that I'll be late. No need to repeat that particular humiliation.

'Don't come in,' he replies.

It's not an offer he has the authority to make, not that it matters. I glance at Duo, who's picking at the dry stick that was once the plant he sent me.

'Maybe.' I text back.

I'm not sure I can imagine something worse for us, than spending the entire day together. Except, maybe, spending it alone.

"You gonna try to put me on a shuttle again?" Duo asks. The words are casual. I watch his back, all knotted tension, and ignore the lightness of his voice.

"No." Because at this point, I don't think it would help.

"You know, the guy at the shop said these things were impossible to kill." He's stripping the stem of the plant, pulling apart the fibers and dropping them in the dirt. "Good thing I didn't send you a kitten."

Instead, he sent me him.

"I'm better with books."

"Oh?" He finally turns, if only to glance over his shoulder toward my desk. "You scribbled all over it."

As easy as it would be to fall into an argument about the difference between scribbling and annotating, I suspect that's exactly what he's trying for. Then again, if I don't rise to the bait, what does it leave us to talk about?

"Why'd you send it?" I ask. Which is easier than 'why are you here' or 'what do you want from me?'

He shrugs, turning back to the plant. "Wasn't sure you wanted me around. Figured, if I found the box in the trash, I'd have my answer."

"I didn't get the impression you wanted to come back here," I say. "You don't like Earth."

He shoots me a darting glance, then stares back out the window. "This fucking planet."

"Why not stay in space?"

I watch the muscles in his back, watch him steel himself. He turns from the window and looks at me like I'm-

I don't even know anymore. He looks at me, and it burns.

"You're not in space."

 _Don't get attached._

Yesterday, he raged at the slightest hint of concern. Last night, I slept with my arms around him. And this morning-

I still don't understand this morning.

He looks away again. I probably should have said something.

I push myself to my feet, and cross to his side, while he keeps his gaze locked on the sunrise. I thought we were simple. That I was the blade he'd chosen to fall on. Not a comfortable role, but a familiar one.

Now?

He presses closer to the window, and I rest my hands against the wall on either side of him.

"Do you wish I hadn't come?" he asks.

"Yes."

I can feel him laugh, or something like laugh, even though we're not touching. "I figured."

I lean forward, and he is flush against me. I'm no longer sure if either of us is breathing.

"But you saved me a trip." As soon as I say it, I know it's true. If he hadn't come to me, I'd have had to go to him, eventually.

He rests his forehead against the glass. "This is fucked up, Chang."

Us? This conversation? The sunrise? I don't ask. We stand there, not talking, as the world grows bright.

Eventually, Duo shakes his head, and I step away.

"I need to get out of here," he says.

Do I flinch? Is that what he sees, what makes him smile? Because I should be relieved, to hear him say it. Should I be relieved? I don't know where we stand. Don't know what he needs.

As to what I need, it's best not to think about it.

"Whatever you want," I say. "Need a ride somewhere?"

Not pushing this time. I've learned what comes of that. Still, he hears what I don't say.

"I mean, like a walk," he says, grabbing his shirt from the floor. "Not a shuttle flight. I'll be back. Later. Tonight. I don't know."

While he gets dressed, I grab the spare key from my desk and write down the code for the alarm.

"I might be at work, when you get back." I toss him the key and hold out the alarm code.

He shoves the key in his pocket. "You trust me not to rob you blind?"

"I'll take the book with me. You can have the plant."

He shoots a glance at the desiccated stem in the window and grins.

"Hey Wufei?" he says, standing with his hand on the doorknob. I can't help but wonder whether I'll see him again.

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

And then the door closes behind him, and I stand a minute, staring at where he isn't. Listening for, and not hearing, his uneven breathing.

I used to like the quiet.


	5. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Actual meaningful conversations are so hard to write. Can't I just have everyone glare at each other and storm out of rooms?

* * *

Heero's in my office when I get to work, sitting at my desk, working on his laptop. And I'd give him credit for that small hint of consideration, if I didn't know he preferred his own machine.

He glances up when I enter, as if just registering my arrival, though we both know he heard me coming. It's his attempt at social niceties, acknowledging people in a way they can visually register.

"If I was fired yesterday, they forgot to inform me of it," I say.

"I told you not to come in," he replies.

We are so skilled, the two of us, at conversation.

One of the newer agents, Smith or Peterson or something, approaches, sees us, and hesitates. I shut the door in his face.

Heero and I are left in silence, an awkward stalemate. My life is made up of all the wrong kinds of silences, lately.

"I need my computer," I say, when he seems content to simply keep working.

"Hold on," he replies.

Five more minutes of typing. I force myself calm, surprised that it's a struggle. I've gone from hollow to base emotions. Anger. Lust. Easy even for a ghost to process.

Except...

 _Duo's breath stirring my hair, the weight of his leg over my hip, the warmth of his skin in the chill of the morning._

I don't have a word for that feeling. The closest I can come is fear. The gnawing awareness that, whatever it is, it isn't meant for us, that it will sour and darken, become more fuel for the fire of Duo's self-immolation. Or mine.

Heero closes his laptop. "Why are you here?"

"It's my office."

"You know what I mean." Heero's got anger down, too.

"Duo's none of your business," I reply, skipping a few conversational steps to get to the heart of things. Why dance around the subject? "And you don't need to have him followed."

He's not surprised that I know, anymore than I'm surprised that he does. We all of us like our secrets, but we're not the best at allowing them. Maybe that's why we've spread out the way we have. Duo in space. Quatre in business. Trowa, Heero, and I in the Preventers, but only partners when things go really wrong. We're not friends, and we're not good at being friendly. We poke each other's sore spots, looking for blood.

But I thought Heero and I understood each other. Had learned how to co-exist. Now he's watching me like he's studying a target.

"You're angry," he says. I wonder if it's a technique Relena taught him, or one of the office therapists. Labeling emotions.

"Yes."

He mulls that over for a moment.

"I was surprised," he says at last. "I didn't realize that you and Duo were close."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Why not?" From him, the question is genuine. He struggles with the why of people. Usually, I don't mind.

"I don't want to talk about that either."

"Chang, if this is interfering-"

It's not," I snap. "Go."

Silence again. Finally, he nods.

"We'll talk later." He stands and picks up his laptop, just like that.

I step aside, and he walks past me, not even glancing back. If things were ever that easy with Heero, I'd be relieved. Instead, I spend the next two hours, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Relena knocks at my door halfway through hour three.

"Wufei, so lovely to see you," she says, sweeping into the room without waiting for an invitation. She takes one of the seats across from me, sitting with the sort of posture even my instructors would have praised. Someone should have trained the woman to fight.

"Relena," I reply, keeping my tone carefully neutral.

"How have you been?" she asks, as if she hasn't been getting reports from Heero for the past week.

"Fine."

The problem with Relena is that she's grown so accustomed to Heero that she hardly registers a cold, one-word answer as a challenge.

"And I'm doing well, too," she replies, voice warm with amusement. "Now, finish up what you're doing. I'm taking you to lunch."

"It's 9:30."

She glances at her watch. "Breakfast then. I have about 45 minutes before the next crisis, so we better hurry."

"Relena-"

She rises to her feet and stares at me with the sort of ruthless compassion that tamed the perfect soldier. "We can sit here and bicker for twenty minutes if you like, but I'm not leaving without you."

"What about the next crisis?"

"I suppose the Earth Sphere Alliance will simply have to dissolve into ash." She waves a hand, dismissing the planet and all its colonies. "Or do you think I'm above acting recklessly to get my way?"

I lock my computer and push away from my desk. "Whatever he told you-"

She tsks lightly and turns to the door. "Food first, and then you can lie to me. My car's waiting."

Grabbing breakfast with Relena means a private room in a restaurant so exclusive that no one stares as she enters the room. All marble pillars, vaulted ceilings, and high windows, the place makes my neck itch. Why do the rich make such a show of their own vulnerability? Oh, there are bodyguards, discreetly tucked near many of the tables, but it would be such an easy thing, to kill most of the men and women dining so contently.

The private room is better, though not secure enough for comfort. Relena's bodyguards wait outside as a parade of waitstaff bring tea, pastries, and an assortment of covered dishes.

"There," says Relena, after the staff retreats. "Now, we can catch up."

"I don't want to talk about Duo," I say.

Relena selects a pastry that oozes raspberry jam, delicately sets it on my plate, then pours tea.

"Who said anything about Duo?" Setting down the teapot, she reaches for the sugar bowl. "Sugar? Cream?"

"You said-" But of course she didn't. And now I've given her the opening she needs.

Relena stirs cream into her own cup, and smiles, saccharine sweet. "But, since you bring him up, how is Duo?"

 _Duo's hand gripping mine, pulling me against him. Not seeking sex. Looking for- what?_

I find I can't force the word _fine_ past my lips. I take a bite of the pastry but barely taste it. Relena's serene gaze never leaves me.

"He's a Gundam pilot," I say at last.

She laughs, soft and sad, but with real amusement. "If we use 'Gundam pilot' as our scale of wellness, then I am at least 60% a Gundam pilot, on my bad days. Heero, fluctuates between 70% and 100% Gundam pilot. You, I would have said, were somewhere between myself and him. Now, I think I misjudged you."

"What does it matter?"

Relena lifts her teacup, studies me over the rim, and takes a sip. She looks tired. Somehow, I never quite noticed how tired. This is her peace, and it doesn't rest lightly on her. And if even Relena is fighting to keep her head above water, what does that say for the rest of us?

"I have given enough blood to this peace," she says. "Enough tears. I will not give it you or Duo, anymore than I will give it Heero. I think I've earned the right to be that selfish."

Her words stop me. They're spoken quietly, but with a ferocity I sometimes forget she possesses. The way she watches me, I can see what draws Heero to her. That intractable determination is so familiar, but hers is unsoiled by bloodlust. If we were both, once, idealists, she chose the better ideals.

I consider asking why she cares what happens to me, or Duo. We're not the ones she chased so fervently. Not the knight to her princess. But I can't form the question in a way that doesn't come off as an attack, so I stay silent.

She answers anyway.

"You five are like the points of a star," she says. "Each defines the others without realizing it. Take one away, and-"

"If you're worried that Heero will get his feelings hurt, I think you give him too much credit."

With a shake of her head, she refills her cup, and I watch the way she grips the teapot, so lightly, respecting its fragility. She's a woman raised to delicate things, forced to indelicate tasks with indelicate people.

"You give him too little. And me, for that matter." She smiles, demurely, but her eyes are bright. "Protect Heero? I'm so much more selfish than that. I'll settle for nothing less than all of you."

And I don't know what to say to her, then. Tell her what she already knows? That she barely knows me, except as Heero's coworker? That she knows Duo even less? That we are not some tidy collection she can keep in some fine glass cabinet, behind lock and key?

I know how she'll react, that she'll acknowledge the argument without accepting it, and feint in some new direction. That she'll be relentlessly, politely demanding, until I run out of arguments and anger. I'm not sure what I'm fighting for anyway, other than the right to be broken.

"What do you want, Relena?" I ask instead, eating another pastry with unnecessary aggression.

She inclines her head, gracefully acknowledging my surrender. "Tell me about Duo."

 _The warmth of his chest against my back. The weight of his arm around me. Blue-violet eyes gone wide with... something. The door closing behind him._

"I don't know," I say. She looks ready to object, but I raise a hand, and she stops. "It's that simple. There's nothing to tell. I have no idea what he's doing here or what he wants."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Heero gave me the impression that he was here for you."

I try not to imagine that conversation. But who is Heero to judge me? He has Relena, doesn't he? Relena, who might just offer safer ground instead of just another pit to fall in.

"I wouldn't take his word for much," I say.

"I don't," she replies, letting her gaze sweep the room pointedly. "And so, here we are."

Here we are, talking in circles about a man who would likely find the whole conversation hilarious. I shift restlessly and check my watch. She did say we'd have to be quick. Before saying that she'd take as long as she pleased.

It's not, strangely, that I don't want to talk to her. If I thought it would make any difference, if there were a way to explain that didn't cast Duo in shadow, I'd try. But even attempting the words cuts my throat. Confession is just a new route to shame. And shame, I can manage without her help.

"Would you like me to guess?" Relena asks, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand. "I find I've grown quite adept at holding both sides of a conversation."

"This doesn't concern you," I say.

She takes that as a yes.

"It started last time he was here," she says. "During the fake-Treize thing. You two were tense as new cats when I dropped by. He broke it off, I'm guessing." She tilts her head slightly, looks surprised. "You did? Well, that adds a twist. I'd assumed he'd come back apologizing, but I suppose that's not much like Duo is it?"

I remind myself that it would be very unwise to shoot her.

"And now you've picked up where you left off. Why? What made you change your mind?" She pauses then, as if I might answer, before continuing her monologue. "Heero said Duo looked fine when he left your place, but Trowa made it sound like you two were a half-step from chasing pills with a rousing game of Russian Roulette. And, as you say, Heero's not the most reliable of sources."

She leans back, picks up her tea cup, and sips.

"So, what is it, Wufei? If you two have found each other, why are you falling instead of flying?" Her words are quiet and tired again. "I thought, once, that happiness would come easily, after the peace. I think it does, for some. But those of us at the center must make do with the scraps we can find. I'd hate to see you throw away a chance."

The way she says it, the way she looks at me, I think maybe she didn't choose the better ideals. Maybe peace isn't all that much easier for the pacifists. The world will never stop asking her for more.

But I have no comfort to offer. I can't give her the happily ever after she's looking for. I try for the truth, as best as I understand it. As best as I can force myself to speak.

"You've got it backward," I say. "He's not here looking for some scrap of happiness, as you put it. He came here to fall."

 _Don't get attached._

For a moment, she's silent, her expression thoughtful. Then, she laughs. A quiet, girlish giggle, that she lifts a hand to hide, but a laugh all the same. My jaw tightens, and she must sense the flash of rage, because she shakes her head, frantically.

"No, wait! Not that. It's just-" She grabs for my hand, and I jerk it away. But I stay sitting. "You remind me of me. And I never thought I'd say that. It's no fun, is it, loving a Gundam pilot?"

"I don't-"

"Call it whatever you like. Heero still won't use the word. But listen to me. When it comes to, let's say caring about, suicidal, self-destructive, erratic men, I think I may be the expert. I've certainly blamed myself for Heero's darker spirals, more than once."

"I make him worse," I say, anger defused by the frank truth of her words.

"Of course you do," she replies and it's clear that she's trying to be gentle. Tactful. "Your sort doesn't know how to like anything that doesn't hurt. How could you? How could I, for that matter? When did we have a chance to learn what it meant to be healthy?"

And she laughs again, but this time, it's not light or girlish. It's almost Duo's laughter. All bitter, exhausted acidity.

"You're the one talking about scraps of happiness and flying."

"That's what makes it funny," she says, on a sigh. "I was over here projecting all my romantic dreams on you, when I know exactly how this works. Trust me Wufei, unless your idea of a perfect evening starts with a paranoid episode and ends with talking your partner off a ledge, you shouldn't be dating among your own kind."

"We're not dating," I object.

 _"I'm not your boyfriend," Duo snarls in my memory._

Relena waves this aside. "Semantics."

My tea's gone cold, but I drink it anyway, and Relena's polite enough to sit quietly as I take too long pouring the second cup. She's so close to right, but she's missed the heart of things.

"We're not the same," I say. "You do that for Heero. Talk him off ledges. But Duo wants..."

 _The sound of his breath, seeking rhythm. The tentative exploration of his kiss._

What does he want?

"More than either of you realize, I'd imagine," Relena says. "He can want you, and want to fall, and want to fly, all at the same time. He can want you to hurt him and need you to save him. You get to decide which you do."

As if it's that simple. And maybe it would be, if I knew what _I_ wanted. Relena's always seemed to understand her own desires.

"I'm not saying it's easy," she adds, reading my mind again. "It's not. But what else can you do? You either learn to swim against the current or drown trying. And if you're lucky, he's willing to do the same for you."

And she's not talking about me and Duo anymore.

"Can't you just get out of the river?"

She shakes her head. "You're a Gundam pilot. And I'm Relena Peacecraft. We don't give up. We drown, or we swim, or we get swept away by the current. But for us, the river is all there is."

"Is that supposed to help?" I ask.

She smiles wanly. "What, you don't like my pep talks?"

"I see why you hired a speech writer."

Someone knocks, and Relena glances at her watch. "I'm late for the next crisis. You don't mind if my driver takes you back?"

I shake my head and stand, and she rises as well. Respectful even after an interrogation, she doesn't try for a hug. Just sighs, smooths her skirt, and turns to face the door.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I wish it'd been as simple as I hoped."

"Maybe try Quatre next time you're looking for romance."

She turns and studies me, almost suspicious, then shakes her head ruefully. "Don't know him well, do you? Trust me, that's one nest of vipers I've no wish to revisit."

"Quatre?"

"You want to see a dangerous relationship? Start with one billionaire terrorist with a genius for strategy. Add, well, we'll just say someone. Throw in natural empathic abilities. Stir well."

Maybe it could be worse.

The knock again, and I surprise myself by being irritated by the rush. "Thank you for breakfast."

"Good luck. And if you ever need to talk, Heero knows where to find me." She taps her fingers along the side her arm, frowning. "I'm fairly certain he's installed a tracking chip, actually. I just haven't been able to figure out where."

I almost make a joke of it, but there's too good a chance that she's right.

"I'm sure you could get a scan."

She shrugs, dismissing the idea. "Whatever helps him sleep at night."

 _Back on the shuttle, Duo's voice calling me from dreams of Meilan, as I last saw her. My hand, bruising his wrist. The way he stood, waiting for me to come back to myself. Kept talking to me after. Even though I didn't want him there. Because I needed him, and somehow, he knew it._

On the ride back, Relena's driver says nothing, and I do the same. I stare out the window, watching the cars drive by, thinking of Duo and not wondering what he wants anymore. It's the wrong question.

But the new one is no easier.


	6. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Back to my old bad tricks again, I know. But in my defense, life has been a bit more hectic than usual. Anyway, the good news is, this is more or less a wrap! So you don't have to wait around for the next bit. I'm going to try to, eventually, do one more Duo chapter, but this is a good stopping place. (Until next decade, when I decide to pick up the series again?)

Warnings: Discussion of suicide.

* * *

Someone's repainted my apartment. The walls are a deep, settling blue and the air is thick with the chemical scent of fresh paint. The dead plant in the window is gone, and there's a large ficus by the door. I touch one of its leaves as I pass; the slick durability of plastic is oddly reassuring.

There's a new bookshelf against one wall, next to my desk, and it overflows with books. Some, admittedly, are outdated textbooks. Others, judging by the titles, are romance novels. But how would Duo know? They're all in Mandarin. The top shelf, in the language we share, is more carefully curated. Technical manuals, books on philosophy, a how-to book on plant care.

In the middle of the room, an antique chess set sits on a low table, the pieces carved of marble. A white pawn is already in play, and I recognize Duo's usual opening. Almost without thinking, I lean over, sliding a piece out in response. Attack and counter-attack. What else is life about?

"Oh, hey," Duo says, stepping out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He's shirtless, skinny and bruised, a stubborn smear of blue paint marking his collarbone. "You're back."

And he smiles, that 'dare you to say something' smile, like this is just a joke he's playing.

Want comes slow and dangerously sweet. The warm solidity of his back against my chest, the smell of his hair, these aren't the things I should remember, looking at him now. What would it be like to touch him the way he touched me this morning? Would he like it?

And why is it, that no matter what I feel for him, it seems dangerous? This, somehow more so than the familiar self-destructive spiral.

 _"Call it whatever you like," Relena said._

"Wufei?" Duo says, still smiling, looking for a laugh. "You hate it that much, man?"

I take in the apartment again. The bookcase. The chess set. The blue of the walls, like the blue of Nataku's armor. This isn't a joke, it's a gift.

And I have no fucking clue how to thank him for it. I think of kissing him, of trying to prove physically what I don't have the words for. But if that's what I want, what we both want, it's the easy way out. And this is never going to be easy.

"I like it," I say. The words come out colder than I mean them.

"Yeah, well, I wanted to do neon stripes, but they didn't have the right paint." Duo's smile goes plastic, the mask firmly in place.

This morning. Last night. If it weren't for his bruises, I might imagine I dreamed them.

"Are you hungry?" I ask. It's something to say.

"Dinner's coming." Duo settles at the far side of the chess table and moves another pawn. "The tacos you like."

Out of habit as much as intent, I sit across from him. "Who said I like tacos?"

Did he and Trowa discuss meal planning while they were hitting each other?

He nods toward my computer. "You've got a saved order, Fei. It wasn't hard."

He broke into my computer. To figure out my takeout order. I remember Relena's casual acceptance of Heero's obsessive protection. There would be more to letting Duo into my life than just his suicidal impulses. The war ruined us in so many little ways.

Boundaries? Duo is defined by his ability to transgress.

I look around my apartment again. Is it even that, anymore? Duo's stolen the quiet, blank space I go to disappear. He's demanding I exist. Refusing to let me be a ghost. I reach for anger, almost out of curiosity, but find warmth where heat should be.

He did this for me.

"You can just say it, you know." He fiddles with his queen, no longer smiling.

"What?"

"'Fuck you, Maxwell. Keep your hands off my shit.' Whatever it is you're thinking when your face goes blank like that." His tone is playful, but that means nothing. I've heard the same lightness on the battlefield. "I'm not gonna blow my brains out because you don't like the paint."

He hesitates a second and sets down the queen. "Yeah. Wouldn't be about the paint."

"I like the paint." I grope for words, looking away from the impatient expectation of his gaze. The demand that I see him, bruised and breaking. That I be here, present, and not disappear into the safety of silence. "I try not to like things."

"You like me?" It should be a joke. Maybe he's trying to make it one. But it comes out a question.

"Yes."

And then, for awhile, we're both silent. We move a couple pieces around the board, neither of us trying very hard.

"What are we doing?" he asks. And I can't help but look at him then. The way he's sitting, cocksure swagger replaced by a pre-emptive flinch. No smile, not even just for show. Disarmed.

I would have called it weakness once, such open vulnerability. And what I wouldn't do for a chance to strangle that younger self.

"Trying to swim," I say. And then, to his blank look. "Trying not to drown."

He gets it. Of course he does. His gaze jumps restlessly from the bookshelf, to the chess set, then back to me.

"Didn't want you to live in a tomb," he says. "Remember what you said last night? About Heero being ok? Figure, if he can do it, you can do it."

"And you?"

He shrugs halfheartedly and pretends to smile. "I'm tired, Fei."

He frowns, shakes his head, and I wait for the more honest answer.

"Not even that. I'm bored. I'm bored and I miss what I was, and I'm not gonna be that guy, ok? I'm not gonna sit around telling stories about my glory days. Fuck, we were just 15." Not quite whispering, the ghost of a laugh in his voice, he adds, "We were gods."

"We were children."

"Yeah." His voice is hollow.

Last night, he reached for me, held me flush against him. It meant something to him. I'm sure of that much. I move over next to him, and he presses his knee against mine.

"What if you stayed here?" I ask. "What if you stayed with me?"

What if I actually tried to help him this time, instead of treating him like someone else's toy I'd broken?

"No offense, Chang, but I think you vastly overestimate the healing powers of your cock." His laugh is a sharp staccato burst, like gunfire. "You're good, but you aren't that good."

I let his laughter carry me for a moment, ride the manic energy of it. And then the laughter stops, and he's still there, his knee pressed against mine, and I don't let the subject shift. I think of Relena, her patient, unwavering insistence that I speak with her.

"I'm not saying it will help," I admit. "But it's better than being on your own, right?"

"Why?" He asks, pressing his arm against mine, leaning in now. "I mean, I _am_ that good, but still. Why do you want me around?"

Duo, with his obsessive honesty, will know if I lie. It'll ruin everything. And still, I almost do.

"I don't know." I say, and he flinches, starts to pull away.

"Whatever."

"I had a routine," I say, before he can stand. "It made things easier. Made it so I didn't have to think too much. Pay too much attention."

Duo stills, skeptical, but apparently willing to let me talk. "I get that."

"You make me want to pay attention again."

He relaxes, and I think, for a second, that it might be enough.

"You make me want to blow things up. Hurt people. Hurt myself." He sounds almost wistful about it. "I thought maybe we'd kill each other."

I can't even pretend surprise. "So why come back?"

"Like I said, I like to hurt myself."

This time, I'm the one pulling away. Relena, with her quiet sadness, her pretty words. She really had me believing that I could do something for him. That we could mean something to each other. That maybe we had to. But I make him worse. I've known that.

Except.

Except he likes to hurt himself. Except he's watching me now, with bitter amusement, as I work myself up toward chasing him off again.

I make myself still. I'm good at that, at least. "Is it better, when you're alone?"

Because he won't lie. Evade, sure. Twist the truth into a noose. But not lie.

The room is silent. But I'm used to silence. I let it stretch. Sometimes, you just have to wait, uninterrupted. If the tacos arrive, I resolve to shoot the delivery guy.

"No," he admits, at last. "Not anymore. I feel like I can breathe, when you're around."

From Duo, it's more than metaphor.

"Then stay."

"You'll be sick of me before Friday." He reaches across the board, flicks over my king. "Bet you a dollar."

"We'll deal with that Friday." I let myself slip my arm around his back. His bare skin is cool under my fingers. I only mean it as a sort of reassurance, but his eyes go bright, and he licks his lips.

"This place needs a kitten," he says. He reaches for the first button of my collar, grinning.

"We're not getting a kitten." I say, tracing the skin along the waistband of his jeans, feeling him shiver at the touch.

Duo twists himself into my lap, bumping the chessboard and sending the pieces rolling around the room. "A black kitten."

"No cats, Maxwell," I hiss, tilting my head up to kiss him.

"We're calling it Scythe," he says, against my lips.

I try to remember where the nearest animal shelter is, and then I stop trying to remember anything, stop trying to think.

He never says he'll stay. But later, when we're eating the cold tacos we found on the doorstep, he stretches, joints popping, and yawns.

"You shouldn't feed strays, Fei. Makes us hard as hell to get rid of." And he smiles, a lazy, self-satisfied smile, with nothing else that I can see behind it.

It's not that he's better. Or that I am. But in that moment, just for a second, it feels like someday we might be.


	7. Interlude 2

Author's Note: Ok, this isn't exactly the wrap I'd hoped it would be. But we're getting there.

Warnings: Discussions of suicide.

* * *

I leave Wufei sleeping. I leave him. I leave.

For what it's worth, I didn't lie to him. Never said I'd stay. And if that's what he wanted to believe, well, so did I.

It's not that he's wrong. He makes it better as much as he makes it worse. It's just, I don't deserve better. Didn't come here for that.

The shuttleport is nearly deserted when I get there, people preferring a nice, daytime flight, as if it matters once you're in space. I make my way through the quiet corridors, the empty food court, and to the terminal with service to L2.

Because I told Howard not to expect me back. And L2's where you go when you've got nowhere left. L2's the end of the line.

I feel the wrong of it immediately, before I even get to the terminal. Quiet becoming silence. The empty magazine stand. The woman pacing endlessly in front of the bathroom. The man staring blankly at his phone, never touching the screen. My fingers itch for a weapon, but I keep walking. Imagine how much easier it would be, if this were a trap. Save me a hell of a lot of trouble.

But it's not terrorists, guns drawn, waiting for me at the back of the terminal, sitting tall and elegant in an uncomfortable spaceport chair.

Relena.

Of course. Because nothing on this fucking planet can be easy. She stands as I approach, straightening her skirt.

"Duo, I was afraid I'd missed you." Her tone is light and easy, like we're meeting by chance in some upscale shop. She's a good liar, Relena. People don't realize that. She lies the way I lie. Less with her words than with her entire being. And the thing is, she makes other people want to lie with her. She told the world a lie about peace and we all loved it so much we tried to make it true.

And now, here we are. Pretending.

"Hey, princess," I say. "Heero know you're out? I'll bet he doesn't like you wandering. I won't tell, but you better hurry back."

"Of course he does. I'm not you. I can't exactly sneak away, can I?" She opens her arms and tilts her head. "Last time I saw you, I got a hug."

I don't want to touch her. She's so pretty. So clean. And I have loved her for it, but right now, it just makes the moment all the more pathetic. She chased Heero across the planet. Followed him into space. She made herself a symbol of something he didn't even know he was looking for.

And I'm slinking away from Wufei in the dark.

I try to find the words to deflect her, try to make a joke, but there's nothing left. Every good, bright part of me fell asleep in Wufei's arms. Maybe it's all still there, while the shadows left behind get ready to launch themselves into space. No great loss. There was never much in me worth saving.

Relena lets her arms drop. "Oh, Duo."

"Why are you here?" I ask, shrugging off any semblance of playing friendly, the words coming sharp and aggressive.

If she's distressed by the change in tone, she doesn't show it. "Because Wufei's new to this game, and I'm not. I thought he could use some backup. I never had any."

"Backup?"

"Do you know how many times Heero's disappeared on me?"

I can imagine. I don't care. It's not that she doesn't have a right to my sympathy, but I've got no right to give it. I just want her gone.

And I figure, that's easy. One cool trick to make someone hate you? Just be honest.

"I fucked him you know," I say, grinning. "Your Heero."

Her brow furrows, lips drawing together into an irritated frown. And I think, there, see? You don't want to help me.

When she speaks, it's on a sigh.

"Duo," she says. "Twice a month, Une and I meet to discuss current events, coordinate joint efforts, and make small talk about the weather."

I blink at her, lost.

"Une," she says. "The woman who murdered my father. Killed him in front of me when I was fifteen. I sit down with her, and we drink tea, and we say, 'oh, it's rather cold for June, isn't it?' Some meetings, I hardly even wish her dead. I say, 'I hope you are well,' and I mean it."

Her eyes are darker under the florescent lights of the spaceport than they ever look on TV. She's so tired. So tired and wounded and so utterly irreplaceable and she knows it.

And I hate myself. But then, I already did.

"Do you really think I care who Heero's slept with? That I'll storm off? Call my guards? Come on, Duo. Do you honestly think that anything you could say would hurt me?"

She's right.

"No," I say. And then. "Sorry." And it's not a lie. I am sorry, and I am _sorry_ , in the sense that I am shit.

"I sort of envy him," she says, more to herself than to me. "He had you four. And what did I have? Dorothy?"

I laugh, though I'm not sure it's funny. It's just, she wants me to laugh. And I owe her that much. She laughs too, soft and quiet, and then she stops, and I stop, and we are left, staring at each other. And I'm still broken.

And so is she.

So that's when I hug Relena, and she hugs me back, and Relena hugs like she's taken classes in hugging, which maybe she has.

"Not too late, you know," I say, as she steps away. "If you want to try another Gundam Pilot out."

She pretends to consider it, then shakes her head. "One's enough," she says. "And more than enough."

"You should go then," I say. "They're supposed to be boarding soon. People are going to want into the terminal."

"No," she says.

"Sure they are. L2's unpopular, but it's not that unpopular," I say, though we both know that's not what she means.

"You're not leaving, Duo," she says, settling back into her chair and crossing her ankles. "It's too soon."

And it's too late to hate her now, and I can't help but wonder if that, too, is intentional, if she planned the little arc of our conversation to leave me helpless here, at the end of it.

"You gonna stop me?"

"If I need to," she says. "They'll close down the shuttleport, if I ask them to. I could site security concerns." She smiles "Dangerous terrorists spotted sneaking around. But I'd hate to inconvenience everyone."

I let my bag drop and collapse in the chair next to her. If we're gonna argue, I might as well be comfortable.

"Wufei would tell you to let me leave," I say. "He tried to take me here himself."

"I'm not sure he would," she replies. "But regardless. He's not here. I am. And I want you to stay."

"I can't be here." The words come out louder, more urgent, than I intend. I lower my voice. "I shouldn't be here."

She grabs my hand, and hers is small and cool and soft and steady. It's mine that's shaking. When did I start shaking?

"You can," she says. "I promise you can."

"You gonna tell me it gets easier?"

"No," she says. "But I find you can get used to anything, eventually. We got used to war. We can get used to peace. But it'll take time. It's only been five years."

"When?" I ask.

"Maybe when we decide we're ready. When we start looking forward instead of back." She squeezes my hand. "When we start daring to make connections."

We're silent again, my hand in hers, and outside the shuttleport, the sun is rising. Wufei's probably awake by now. He'll know I'm gone.

"He'll understand," she says, following my gaze.

And she's probably right. Somehow, that makes it worse.

"What do you care?" I ask. For something I meant as an accusation, it comes out pleading. "Like you said, one pilot is enough."

"Maybe I like to keep my options open. Maybe I want to see if your offer still stands in another five years." She grins at me, then the grin softens to a smile. "But mostly, I just think you deserve better."

"Not after what I did."

" _Because_ of what you did." Relena locks her gaze with mine, and her eyes are blue, blue, blue like a projected colony sky. "Not because it was right. Not because of freedom or peace. Because it was you, and it shouldn't have been. It shouldn't have been any of us. You deserve better than who you had to be, what you had to do."

"What if I liked it?" I ask, searching her expression for disapproval. "What if I miss it?"

And for a second, I think it's there, in the way she sighs and shakes her head. But again, I've got it wrong, seeing the idea and not the reality of her.

"You think I don't miss it?" she asks. "The world turned around me. They called me the Queen of the Earth. Can you imagine? Everything I did mattered. The future was mine to change. Now, I can barely get proposals past committee. I'm so tired, Duo."

And she rests her head against my shoulder, and I put my arm around hers, and we are quiet, quiet, thinking of what we were and what we are, and how much easier it might be if we could just set it all ablaze.

Or anyway, that's what I'm thinking.

"Kids grow into the spaces they're given," she murmurs against my shoulder. "We were given too much and all in the wrong shape."

She sounds nothing like any Relena I've ever known. Nothing burns in her voice. I can hear the absence of her smile.

"Relena."

"If you try to say anything inspiring, I'll murder you," she says, reminding me of no one so much as me. And no, I don't believe her, but I love the lie.

"Not exactly the inspiring sort," I reply. "That's your job."

"I know," she says. "How am I doing?"

"Well, better than Trowa."

"Heero told me. Sorry about that."

"S'alright. He got me home." The words stumble out, unconsidered, and I rush to correct them. "To Wufei's, I mean."

One of Relena's guards walks past at the edge of my vision, gaze locked ahead, deliberately not watching us.

"Your people are getting restless."

"I've got inspiring to do," she says, with such perfect hate I want to kiss her. So I do, kissing the crown of her head in as much brotherly affection as I can muster.

"You want to run away with me?"

"We're both staying, Duo. Come on. I need someone to talk to. And Wufei needs-" She's quiet too long. "You. He just needs you. You make him alive again. I like seeing the light in him."

"You can talk to Heero," I say, attacking the safer argument.

"No. I can't," she says. Just that.

It makes me sick, the way she says it. The weight of truth there.

"Princess…"

"Don't start," she says, more brittle than sharp. "He does the best he can. So do I. We're alive. That's enough, for now."

And who, after all, am I to judge?

"And later?"

"Is later."

"And that's what you want for me, is it?" I ask. "For Wufei? Just being enough for now? Surviving?"

"Yes," she says, with a quiet, vicious sort of passion. "What's wrong with surviving? What's wrong with getting by? We made it through. We just have to keep making it through."

Is this inspiration? The promise of a fucking miserable slog, and who knows if it ever stops?

"There are good moments," she says, to my silence. "You start with seconds, until you find minutes, and maybe sometimes there are whole hours."

"That's not much."

"It's better than death." She sits up, smoothing her skirt, and I can feel her restlessness. She'll stay here as long as she needs, I believe that. But she's not supposed to. "Tell me honestly, do you wish you'd never come back? That you shuttle had exploded in the atmosphere?"

"Wufei-"

"No. Not Wufei. You don't get to decide what he feels. You."

I haven't been running the numbers. I lick my still sore lips, remembering the impact of Trowa's fist. But even that was a sort of comfort, a twisted attempt at a pat on the back.

And the rest of it? The memories burn like sunlight on earth, the too much, too bright, too vivid heat of it. The instinctual need to flinch, to not look too closely.

Of course, Wufei's better than dying. He's better than living, in any way I've ever lived.

And I don't deserve him. And she doesn't care.

I don't say anything, and she kisses my cheek.

"Moments," she says. "They won't all be good. But they'll all be better than the alternative."

"I'll hurt him," I say.

"And he'll hurt you. And you'll probably both hurt me. AAnd it will still be better than the alternative." She stands and holds her hands out to me. "Come on Duo. Let's get you home."

I let her pull me up. Let her lead me out of the terminal.

And I think of all sorts of clever arguments, as we walk. A million million reasons I should go, and she should let me.

But I don't say any of them. I just walk with her, her arm through mine, the sunrise to the right of us, turning the sky all pink of gold. And she doesn't hurry, and neither do I, and her guards fall in behind us, and everything feels almost safe.

It's such a perfect moment. And I can't bring myself to break it.


	8. Chapter 6

Authors note: Done at last. What an odd feeling.

* * *

He leaves before dawn, slipping away in the darkness without a sound. For a second, I'm insulted. Not that he's leaving, but that he believes I could sleep through his departure. Does he think I've gone so soft?

Maybe not. Maybe it's simply easier, if he pretends to believe it. If I pretend he's right. No awkward conversations, no failed attempts to keep him. Just a darker shadow among shadows, and the quiet getting quieter.

Did I think we were past this? That a couple shelves and five minutes of honest conversation were enough to wash away the war? Was I still hoping that, when all the pain burnt off, it'd leave something stable and clean behind?

Salt instead of poison.

No.

That too, was a sort of playacting. Both of us pretending to be fooled. Because it was easier. Or because we wanted it to be true.

It's so quiet. Quiet like it's always been, but somehow, it never seemed to matter. It matters now.

Relena would chase him.

I don't chase him.

I do nothing. I sit and the walls are not white and there are books on the shelves and none of it matters.

If Duo were here, I would hear his breaths. They would sound just like mine.

He's right. I need a damn cat. Something to take care of.

What happens if he doesn't come back? If he goes back to Howard or blows up a building with himself inside and finally has his blaze of glory?

What happens is, I'll still be here. And he'll still be right. What I'm doing, it's not living. It's been so easy, to shut down, to be a ghost. Easy, too, to come alive only for the self-destructive intoxication of his presence. Both are a sort of dissolution of self. A way of disappearing. Books. War. Apathy. Him.

I have always loved anything that would take me wholly away from myself.

He loved me like a blade to his skin. And I loved him like an open flame. Something to keep me warm until it burned me hollow.

But that's still love, isn't it? A truth I haven't allowed myself. However I loved him, I loved him. Love him. And oh, ghosts of who I have been, what fools you were not to see him more clearly. We could have had him longer. Could have been someone that held together the shards of him, before he ground himself to dust.

Too late now. There's only forward. Only through. Whatever lies we told each other, he was right. I can't continue like this.

And I guess I'm still a Gundam pilot. Because I can only see one way out, and that's setting fire to what came before.

I call Une. It's just past 5:00 a.m. She answers on the first ring.

"Chang? You aren't calling out again, are you?" Her words are angrier than her tone. "I can't just hand your cases to other agents."

"I'm not calling out," I say.

"Good. Then what is it? Is it about Duo?" Of course she knows about Duo.

"No."

"Chang, I do have other responsibilities."

And so, I brace myself. Take aim at my life. Pull the trigger. "I'm giving notice. Leaving the Preventors."

"You can't." Now, there's anger. The cold, precise fury she's learned to master.

"I'll come in tomorrow and start to close my cases. I should be done by the end of next week."

"Don't do this to me. Not today. Not this early. What do you want? A raise? A promotion? We need you."

Duo's name nearly crosses my lips. She would do it. Find him. Bring him back.

But it wouldn't matter. He'd only run again. "You're better off with the new agents," I say. "They follow orders."

"Chang, please."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Une." I hang up the phone, then turn it off. There'll be a fight tomorrow, but for now, it's back to silence.

This time, I'm grateful for it. I have plans to make.

* * *

It's two hours later when I hear someone moving around outside and go to check. I figure it's Une, or maybe Heero, come to drag me back.

Duo's sitting on my doorstep, knees pulled up to his chest, shoulders hunched as if against a blow. He doesn't look up, just keeps staring out over the parking lot as I lower my gun and flick on the safety.

"Hey," he says.

Just that. He's alive. He's here. I bite back the urgent rush of relief, not wanting to say too much and scare him off again.

So, I say nothing.

"Yeah, I'd be pissed, too." He runs his fingers through his hair, a lifelong gesture cut short by current realties. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-. I'm just sorry."

I sit down next to him then, and he immediately scoots closer, until his arm is pressed flush against mine.

"I'm not your keeper," I say. "You don't need my permission to leave."

"What are you then?" he asks. "What are we?"

And I have an answer for him, but I don't have the words to say it. Were I younger, I'd write him a poem, fight a war in his name, self destruct in his honor.

If I haven't established it sufficiently, yet, I have spent most my life as a fool. What use is it, to die for love?

"Comrades," I say, finally. "Two points on a five-pointed star. Two people trying to figure out how to be ok."

"I don't think I can do that here." He stares up at the sun, unblinking, just like they always warn us colonists not to do. It paints him with light, makes him look, for a moment, golden, healthy, whole. This world makes lies of us all.

"Then don't try here," I say. "I'm leaving the Preventors. Leaving the planet. You could come with me."

Duo lowers his gaze, chuckling. "You can't leave the Preventors."

"I already did. I told Une a few hours ago. I have a few things to finish, but I'm done." I rub my eyes, exhausted by the memory of what's left yet to do. "I'm tired of finding excuses to keep fighting the same war."

He stiffens then, pulling away. "What else are we good for?"

Despite myself, I smile. "It's been two hours, Duo. Give me a little time to figure that out."

He relaxes again, bumping his shoulder against mine. "I never know if you've somehow got your shit together or if you're just as fucked up as I am."

"I'm just as fucked up as _I_ am," I say, sliding my arm around his back and resting my palm against his hip. "I doubt that will change, wherever I go."

"Five unique, delicious flavors of broken." He holds up five fingers, then adds the thumb of his other hand. "Six. Relena."

"The list gets longer than that," I say. "War taints everyone it touches."

He leans in, pressing his head into my neck, and I swallow the urge to run my fingers through his hair. "I know. But it feels like it's just us hurting. Just me, missing it. I hear people laugh, and I hate them. How can they?"

"You laugh," I say.

"Yeah, but I'm lying."

"You're not the only one capable of lying."

He goes quiet, leaning in closer, his breathing slowly shifting from his own, rapid sips of air to my slower rhythms. I give in, reaching up to brush my fingers up from the base of his neck, feeling the thickness of his hair and wondering at how heavy that braid must have been. Did it feel freeing, discarding that weight? Or was it one more self-inflicted wound?

"You're really leaving?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Can I come?"

"Always." The word, with all its weight, feels somehow too light. "Wherever I go. Whenever you like. You have a place."

"Why?" The question is a whisper, spoken to his hands.

 _Because I love you. Because you make me want to be alive._

"Because, I don't think either of us can do this alone."

It's enough. He looks up.

"You know," he says, his eyes burning, as if in that one, long glance, he captured the sun. "I don't lie. I keep my promises."

"I know," I say.

"Can I make you a promise?"

"Yes."

He takes a slow breath, out of rhythm with mine. "I promise I'll tell you," he says. "When it gets bad. When I don't think I can do it anymore. I'll tell you."

And me? I almost stop breathing. He has handed me the net with which to catch him when he falls.

"I promise-" I start, then stop. I trust him to keep his word. But I'm not so deeply bound by honesty. The potential for betrayal, what it would do to him...

"You don't have to," he says, a little too quick, a little too sharp.

"I promise the same," I say. "On my honor. I'll tell you."

And so, I bind myself to him, grasping at whatever vestiges of honor I still hold and thrusting them toward him for safekeeping. Perhaps, if he saves my soul, I might just save his.

He leans in and catches my lips in his. This time, it's slow. No violence. No poison. He tastes like sunlight. Like heat.

He tastes like salt.


End file.
